Pretty When You Cry
by Indigo X
Summary: (sequel to 'Gilded Nightmares') The dark, twisted shadow of evil descends upon Rob Van Dam once more... R for the likely eventual containment of everything an 'R' rating stands for. Whee.
1. backlash

Pretty When You Cry

(a sequel)

an Indigo X joint

Author Notes: This is the true sequel to Gilded Nightmares. Blistering Daydream was sort of a 'based off' thing... in this story, the events of BD never occurred. Confused? I am. ANY-way, y'know that little thing called chronological order? Where things begin at the beginning and end at, well, the end, in a straight timeline? Forget it. The time of each event will be noted at the beginning of the chapter. Best look at that, or you'll get real lost. Let's see, what else... oh, yes. Person also changes... some chapters are told by a character, who will be named at the chapter start with the time (unless the narrator is a mystery person, i.e. the bad guy, in which case he or she will be simply identified as '?'. And some chapters'll just be told in good ol' fashioned 3rd person. Got all that? Cool, have a toffee. 

Of course, you should probably read Gilded Nightmares before this. I also recommend reading Drowned World. Not a requirement, but it'll give you some idea of Rob's background in my WWE-verse. Same with the ever-awesome AmaraSidhe's story Fire Coloured Jewel, 'cuz that gives you the story of Rob's paramour SoCo and the cuddly tale of how they got together. Oh, and Kari and Fred are in it. Hee.

Virginia 'SoCo' Calloway is AmaraSidhe's. Kari Foley, Fred, Reggie Holloway, and Melinda Flair are all mine, though they may or may not show up in this story. I dunno yet. WWE guys involved are all property of themselves, the fans who love them, and the omnipotent Vince. 

In the immortal words of the great Hannibal Lecter, 'Okee-Dokey, here we go.'

one.

backlash.

(one week after the Goldust incident.)

"Quit it, ya big moron!"

Virginia Calloway, more commonly called SoCo by everyone, laughed and screamed, pounding on the upper arms of the young man who'd, without warning, picked her up and began tickling her sides unmercifully. With her thick southern accent, it sounded like 'Quee-yat it' and 'moe-hron'. But even as she squealed and thrashed, even as she hit and insulted, her emerald eyes twinkled with laughter. Because not more than a week ago, she doubted (but only slightly, only for one moment when she was at her most desperate!) if she would ever get to play with this man again. And not more than three days ago, she'd wondered when or if she would ever see him smile or laugh again. 

The loss of such, she mused, would be a sad thing indeed. For when Rob Van Dam laughed, the world seemed to laugh with him. When he smiled, everything seemed that much brighter. That was just his way- optimistic, happy, playful, kind-hearted to a fault... spacey, perhaps, but she could deal with that.

He laughed.

"No way, 'Gin! Not 'till you tap out! C'mon, say you give! I can do this alllll day..."

As much as she tried to get away, it was to no avail- Rob had been a martial artist almost all his life, and his reflexes were quick as lightning. He simply bended and twisted, preventing her from squirming out of his tickling grasp. His eyes, too- they were sort of green-gold right now, they were hazel and had a tendency to change color slightly with the lighting and sometimes his mood- danced with laughing glitter, and his laughter rang warmly through the room. The boiler room seemed a million years and just as many miles away.

SoCo squealed again, then smirked. She hadn't been with Rob this long without learning a few tricks. Twisting around, she swept out with her left foot, toppling Rob off balance and sending him falling to the floor on his rear, where his girl neatly turned the tides by tickling his side. When the surfer rolled over to try to block the ticklish spot, SoCo snickered, pushed him so he was laying on his stomach, and pounced onto his back with the intent of wrenching one of his arms (but not too hard- just enough to be playful) until _he_ gave in.

The following effect was unintended and instantaneous.

__

"GET OFF! GET OFF ME, GETOFFGETOFFGETOFF..."

SoCo jumped about a foot in the air at the sudden, panicked onset of screaming. Rob's mindframe had taken a complete one-eighty- his tanned skin went a few shades paler, breath came in short little gasps, eyes (now darkened to a deep tan- a touch more gold-ish than straight brown) were widened in utter terror and partially hidden by a few loose strands of very dark blonde (sometimes brown- the hair tended to change color as well, deep brown at its darkest, and at its lightest a very pretty shade of sandy blonde), and his whole frame, curled up in a ball, shook with small but violent tremors._  
_

"Just go away... please, just stop it... leave me alone... please..."

She blinked, and then sighed lightly. A flashback. Rob was having a flashback. Carefully, she wrapped her arms around him and held him close, close enough to smell her light jasmine perfume. She then took a lock of her flame-bright red hair and waved it in front of his eyes- sort of a signal flag that it was alright, he was safe, nothing or nobody was going to hurt him.

"It's okay... shh... don't worry, it's okay... calm down, baby. You're not in that place anymore. I'm here with you, you're safe, it's alright..."

It took a little bit, but soon Rob did calm down, his trembling body relaxing in a long sigh, falling even closer into her embrace, easing his screaming psyche with the gentle sound of SoCo's heartbeat. 

"Well..."

He smiled then, not his shining, warm sunbeam grin, but a tiny, muted little smile. The self-reassuring smile of one who's re-grasping or trying to re-grasp some little shard of normalcy. 

"...at least, y'know... nothing worse can happen t' me..."


	2. shadows

two. 

shadows.

(ten months later)

(?)

I hate him.

Oh, I know that's a very odd viewpoint around here. After all, there's just no getting around it... everybody just _adores _Rob Van Dam. And not just because he's charismatic, or beautiful, or funny, or talented, he's all of those things... but on top of that, Rob's... well, he's _sweet._ While a lot of guys around here try to grasp things with an iron fist and try to assert their dominance, get their respect, chase their belts with no real thought to anyone else... Rob's got nothing but kindness in that big ol' heart of his. 

That just makes me want to puke. Everyone else here has to work to the bone and be sneaky and devious in one way or another to earn their dues, but not him. And why? Just because he happens to be a nice guy? Where's the fairness in that? There is none. None at all.

That stupid, thickheaded prettyboy. I laughed when he finally got what was coming to him. Not out loud, of course, but on the inside. And when I was alone, I nearly split my sides with laughter. That's one of the memories I cherish above all the others I have... the mental image of Rob Van Dam, WWE sweetheart, head Cupcake of the whole damn Cupcake Brigade, being brought up from that basement, bloody, filthy, hurting, and...

...crying.

As much as I hate that man, I have to admit he's pretty. And despite all that blood and dirt, he was pretty that day. Even prettier to me because he was suffering. I wanted to slap his face just to make him cry more, and catch those tears in a bottle. Own your sorrow, own your soul, you're mine to torture as I see fit.

But now... hell, it's not even a year ago, not even a year's passed since then, and Rob's happy as a clam. Just peachy fucking keen, as if he's completely forgotten he was ever abducted and raped. That shit can _seriously_ mess a person up... I've heard of guys being locked up in a psych ward for the rest of their lives because of things like that... but oh, no. Not our dear sweet Rob. He's fine, just fine. Maybe he's simply too stupid to realize just what's happened to him, just how awful it was.

Maybe he needs reminding.

Maybe I need to remind him, in a way he'll never forget.

Because I hate him...

...but he's so pretty when he cries.


	3. stifle

three.

stifle.

(monday.)

(narrator - rob's thoughts are in parenthesis)

It's a nighttime ritual. It always made him sad, and angry, and opened up a pit in his stomach, but he knew that if he didn't do it that he'd lie awake

(watching the ceiling dissolve and the entire universe break apart into tiny grainy dots only to come together again and break up again lather rinse repeat)

all night, and generally be a mess the next morning.

He watched the news. The news was always full of images and stories of wars, and murder, and kidnappings, and

(darkness)

general cruel things that the human race did knowingly to one another. And he'd get angry, but he'd let it seethe, letting all the raw hatred and venom

(how could you do that to another person how could you you sick sadistic fuck i'd like to snap your neck with my bare hands and watch you burn in hell asshole)

evaporate within him. Perhaps he was afraid of this dark hatred that he, who hated hating with a passion, harbored. For in that respect, was his desire to kill killers any different 

(hypocrite)

than the killer's desire to kill? Was life not life? Who was he to pass judgement, even when the judgement

(guilty)

seemed obvious? Rob didn't know. He could only bear witness. And after this ritual of bearing witness night after night, he ended it with a vigorous, solitary walk in the cold light of the moon, letting his rage dissipate and escape out his mouth with the wispy cloud of steam that was his breath.

As it was this night. He turned the TV off with a sharp 'click', kissed SoCo on the cheek

(i love you i love you you are my angel)

and strode out the door of their hotel room, and out of the hotel itself, and walked down the streets with his fists clenched, letting the black tendrils of fury at the atrocities of human nature

(megan dempsey age eight found dismembered in a swamp tonight main suspect is her babysitter of three years)

dissolve. So he could resume his life. It was almost if he died each night, consumed by

(what)

a thing he could not name but feared above all other things, including 

(!!!!NO!!!!)

That Place, and the memories it brought forth.

He walked on, and walked on,

(let it out let it go thats right)

and soon felt better. He did not give money to the homeless he passed, but rather bought each a Double Whopper with the works from a nearby Burger King, and they all smiled gratefully at the handsome young man who had been so kind, when the rest of the world seemed to look away. 

A person watched him from a shadow, harboring even viler intentions.

A figure followed silent, like the darkness, like a kidnapper's evil. No one was on the street but a stray rat when it wrenched an arm around Rob's neck, a hand over his mouth, the honed edge of a gleaming, freezing cold carving knife to his throat.

Don't move, don't scream, it said, or I will kill you, and then your darling SoCo.

(no)

Out of instinct, panic, he struggled. The figure jammed the knife in Rob's shoulder to the hilt, and while the martial artist gave but one cry in agony

(o god)

it siezed a bottle and kerchief from its coat, and soon had an ether-soaked cloth over Rob's mouth and nose.

The world 

(someone please)

grew

(help)

black 

(im going to die)

and

(soco i love you i love you i love)

silent.


End file.
